


radio silence

by hualun



Series: This Flawed Little Universe of Ours [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slight Manga Spoilers, Vague Relationships, i guess? i don't know either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29773854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hualun/pseuds/hualun
Summary: Hanamaki left a lot of things in Matsukawa's apartment.(spoilers: he hasn't cleaned them out yet.)
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Series: This Flawed Little Universe of Ours [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898725
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	radio silence

**Author's Note:**

> **spoilers** from the final chapter with a direct reference to a scene in there. [x.](https://open.spotify.com/track/2INUkDPCO1eQlOFmIN5VAC?si=rij9ZWmVQQSlKl-f08Z8eA)

Hanamaki left a lot of things in Matsukawa’s apartment.

Whenever Matsukawa showers, he sees the special shampoo for color-treated hair sitting on one of the corners in the bathtub. It’s a dark red color with a long, thin neck, right next to Matsukawa’s generic brand one.

(“Isn’t your hair color natural?” Matsukawa asked with an incredulous look on his face. He’s mostly just exasperated at the prospect of taking up more space than necessary in the cramped bathroom. 

Hanamaki shrugged. “A man has many secrets,” he said with a cat-like grin.)

When Matsukawa goes to brush his teeth, Hanamaki’s pink-handled toothbrush sits next to some crumbs of fancy soap that he got as a gift. The bristles are somewhat worn down, the colors faded.

It’s just a toothbrush. Absolutely nothing special about it. Easy to throw away. Completely forgettable. 

Which is why it sits there, as inconspicuous as a toothbrush can be.

(The story of the soap:

“Who the hell gives soap as a gift,” Matsukawa said when Hanamaki came back late one night.

“I won’t let you talk to my baby like that,” Hanamaki argued, cradling the carefully-wrapped bar in his hands, comically larger than the soap. “It’s fancy. Smells really nice too.”

“Since when was it your child? I don’t remember agreeing to this.”

“Since now,” Hanamaki declared. “And I have full custody.”)

As Matsukawa goes through his closet to find something to wear, some of Hanamaki’s old clothes hang on the plastic hangers. There’s a faded shirt with the red volleyball mascot, a pair of pants Hanamaki always forgot to get hemmed, and an old rain jacket, the plastic a shade of dull pink.

(They were walking home from practice one day when rain clouds unexpectedly covered the sky and soaked them all through. Somebody suggested the idea of running to the convenience store to take cover.

“Oh, I just remembered it’s my turn to make dinner tonight,” Matsukawa grimaced upon seeing the muted neon lights of the FamilyMart against the grey sky. “You think they sell umbrellas?”

“Why not just get a rain jacket?” suggested Hanamaki. “I’ll even pick one out for you. We can match.”

“You’re just gonna get me the thing closest to pink.”

“And what about it?”)

He’s only touched the volleyball T-shirt once to send off Iwaizumi at the airport on an unbearably sweltering August day. Hanamaki was busy with work, so he didn’t go, asking Matsukawa to send his “bountiful love and affection—”

“Tell him to give that to you,” Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. His black suitcase was by his side, scratched at the edges. “You’re the one living with him and all.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Matsukawa replied with a snort. “We’re sharing what we have with you.”

Iwaizumi punched him.

“Don’t say shit like that again,” he grumbled, while Matsukawa rubbed at the spot of impact on his shoulder. “I don’t wanna be caught in whatever’s going on between the two of you.”

(It’s funny how Iwaizumi doesn’t label it as _dating_. Then again, the two of them never put the words to whatever the whole arrangement was. Locked eternally tiptoeing the line in the liminal space between friend and lover, never quite crossing over. It’s the contract they’ve signed, an agreement to just not talk about it.

Because it’s easier like that.)

Matsukawa’s drive to the funeral home is punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the occasional honking. The news station plays in the background as a droll tune, replacing Hanamaki’s favorite CD. Strangely, that was one of the things he took with him.

(Sometimes he’d imagine that the CD was more important to Hanamaki than he was. He’d wryly smile at this thought, because even if he asked Hanamaki that, Matsukawa knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer. It’s not like him to say what his priorities are in the first place.)

But things in the universe aren’t always so easy for him. Hanging from the rear-view window is a small volleyball on a piece of red ribbon. Hanamaki bought it, complaining that Matsukawa’s car was too boring.

(“You have to show some personality,” he said, tying the ribbon in a secure knot. The intense look of concentration on his face makes Matsukawa’s heart stutter just a bit more wildly than normal.

“It’s my car,” he stated plainly. “Nobody but us is gonna be in it.”

“You never know what life will hit you with,” Hanamaki replied, giving the ribbon a last little tug. “There. All done.”)

The simplest course of action is to throw everything out, so he doesn’t have to deal with it when he comes home. Funeral work is depressing enough. He doesn’t need to add more to the fuel. 

Except—whenever he takes out the trash, he always convinces himself he’s forgotten. Forgotten about the shampoo bottles, the crumbs of soap and the old toothbrush, the old shirts. 

(Forgotten about the whole _thing_ , because it’s easier that way.)

He’s traded the dance for this: the too-silent apartment, sometimes feeling just a bit too big for him alone.

He’s traded his memory for this: trying his best to find comfort in that silence.

(“Just gotta swallow it down like bitter medicine,” Hanamaki said, when he first appeared on Matsukawa’s doorstep all those years ago. It's a bit like fate and a bit like coincidence he's there. “I’m here now and you’re gonna learn to deal with it.”

Truth: Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.)  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“I think the both of you are stupid,” Iwaizumi declares over the phone, the line crackling a bit. It’s midday for him, so the bustle of wherever he’s at plays out in the distance. “Like, really stupid.”

“I don’t want to hear that from somebody who’s boyfriend is in Argentina.”

“ _He is not my boyfriend—”_

“He wasn’t mine either.” As they both made quite clear that night.

“And when did I say that?” Iwaizumi clicks his tongue in annoyance. Matsukawa can picture Iwaizumi’s eye roll clearly in his mind. “But there’s no way in hell you can tell me you’re OK with it though.”

Matsukawa presses the phone closer to his ear. His mouth opens to say those words, that he’s just fine—

And they dry up unexpectedly in his throat.

A small sigh escapes Iwaizumi’s mouth. “What I thought. So? What are you going to do?”

“Keep up the sighing and you’re only gonna get older,” Matsukawa remarks offhandedly, trying to ignore the more pressing question at hand. His eyes gaze at his dark ceiling, barely able to make out the faint outlines of the overhead light.

“ _You shut up_. Look, I’m not gonna dictate what you should and shouldn’t do, this is honestly none of my business.” Iwaizumi pauses briefly. “But get a grip on yourself. All I’m trying to say here is that this whole _thing_ isn’t as goddamn melodramatic as you’re making it out to be.”

Iwaizumi’s probably right. It’s not like Matsukawa to get his head wound up so tightly in this matter. Did they even confess? The hazy days of the locker room and the squeaky gym, when all life was just a muddle, felt so far away now.

But—

“Then why’d he leave?” he asks with a detached note, not entirely sure what the answer he’s looking for is. Or whether he’s even looking for one in the first place.

“Don’t ask me that,” Iwaizumi grunts. It’s an answer he does expect. “Ask him yourself. Maybe the group chat’ll feel less awkward.”

Matsukawa’s hand grips his phone just a bit tighter. “That’s on the assumption he’ll come back,” he muses flatly. “And last time I checked, the group chat’s awkward because you’re ignoring Oikawa. Maybe try to not do that.”

“That was four months ago.” Was it really? He hears another sigh—though this time it’s a bit more tender. “You really think Hanamaki won’t though? Then what’ve you been doing since then?”

What has he been doing?

His free hand absentmindedly plays with the cord of a charger, left on the bottom socket of the outlet, one that won’t fit in his phone. How long it’s been there, he’s not sure.

Because Matsukawa has always been just a little more patient than necessary, even when days turn to weeks and weeks turn to months.

So what has he been doing?

“Who knows.”

A long pause hangs between the two of them. Matsukawa’s head hits his pillow, his eyes starting to close. 

“Do you love him?” asks Iwaizumi.

“What are we, junior high students?”

“ _Just answer the damn question_.”

Admittedly, the answer is already on the tip of Matsukawa’s tongue even in his pause. Or maybe it existed even before the question was asked.

“Something like that,” he says faintly.

He thinks he hears Iwaizumi say, in his gruff tone, _then be clear about it, you dumbass_ before hanging up, citing the need for sleep. Matsukawa chuckles briefly, the noise soundless from his lips.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Because when you never defined them in the first place, breaking boundaries is easy.

Is it even breaking? Matsukawa sometimes wonders, _if there was nothing there to begin with?_

For some reason, whenever Matsukawa tries to remember the conversation, the taste of the microwaved teriyaki salmon Hanamaki bought is the first thing that surfaces in his mind. It was a snowy night too, one that came unexpected. From the TV, some cheesy variety program plays out.

“I’m going to Tokyo in a couple days,” Hanamaki had said over dinner, on a night that felt both like yesterday and a year ago.

This isn’t anything new. Hanamaki was never one to stay too long in one place, something Matsukawa accepted a long time ago. When he first arrived at Matsukawa’s doorstep those couple years ago with only a suitcase and a fistful of cash asking, _can I stay for the night?_ and left a week or so afterwards.

“That so? Have fun,” Matsukawa replied, picking at the salmon. 

Hanamaki’s eyes looked down as he dug his chopsticks into his rice. “What if I don’t come back?” he asked between chews. Matsukawa just barely stopped himself from reaching over to brush off a speck of rice on the corner of Hanamaki’s lip.

In truth, he’s not sure if he would’ve been able to cross the distance over the dining table that night. Rather than an arm’s length, Hanamaki’s an ocean, maybe a galaxy or two away.

So instead Matsukawa said, with a half-committed shrug and an answer the same—”Not up to me to decide what you do.”

Hanamaki looked at him, half out of exasperation, half with something _more_ in the depths. Searching for another answer in the features of Matsukawa’s face. He tried his best to pull his lips into a neutral expression, ignoring the wild hammering from his heart. _Badum badum badum_. As he always does.

“What, no _please come back, I can’t live without you?_ ” teased Hanamaki, his expression quickly wiped by an easygoing smile. Almost too easy, he notes. “No _do you really have to go? Why can’t you stay?_ ”

They both know it’s a bad joke. But Matsukawa has to wonder if, in a different universe, he would’ve gotten close to saying something along those lines. Maybe Hanamaki would’ve revealed that he was only going away for just a day or two afterwards or even say, _ha, got you good_ afterwards. End of conversation.

But they don’t live in that universe. And truthfully, he’s not sure if that universe can exist in the first place. 

Because _that_ would mean—

“Don’t put those cheesy words in my mouth.” Matsukawa replied, swallowing down a bite of rice (and maybe something else with it too). It didn’t help. “Not like we’re actually dating.”

“You’re being pretty cold, aren’t you?”

“You’re the one that’s dropping this on me right now.”

One of Hanamaki’s eyebrows quirked up in response. “You’re the one who said we aren’t _actually dating_ ,” he jabbed, taking a defiant bite from a chunk of salmon, dipped with more sauce than Matsukawa prefers. “Did I have to tell you earlier? Would a week’s notice be enough?”

“I don’t really care either way.” Matsukawa rose, the bottom of his chair scraping against the tile, and walked over to the kitchen sink. He turned on the faucet as he rinsed his plate, trying to drown out Hanamaki’s questions, the laugh track coming from the TV, the noise of his heart. “Do what you want.”

“So what happens if I really don’t come back?” Hanamaki called out once again, almost humorously so. 

This isn't anything new. But you have to wonder sometimes if it’s alright for this to continue.

“Then you don’t,” said Matsukawa, turning off the faucet. “Simple as that.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The sound of a train whistling by hums in the far distance. Hanamaki complained it was annoying but Matsukawa likes the mechanical _click_ - _click-click_ on the rails, something to anchor him down.

And it’s then Matsukawa realizes: it’s impossible to find comfort in the silence when your ears are still listening to the noise.  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The last message sent: _Don’t forget your breakfast_.

Since then it’s been silent on both ends. Matsukawa doesn’t remember who sent it. But since then, it’s stuck to the back of his mind, unable to be peeled off, so he’s never missed a morning meal.

Today’s no different as he’s seated at the small circular table, munching absentmindedly on a fried egg only slightly charred at the edges when he hears a familiar repetitive knock on his door. Without another thought, Matsukawa goes over to answer it.

“Hey. Can I stay over for the night?” Hanamaki asks, a suitcase in hand. His hair’s ruffled at the edges, looking like it hasn’t seen a brush in a couple days. It's a bit like fate and a bit like coincidence all the same, all over again.

“Don’t you have my spare key?” Matsukawa asks, still not pushing the door any further back. “Thought you took them with you.”

Hanamaki scratches the back of his head, a slight chuckle coming out of his mouth. “It’s right here—” his hand flicks out, revealing the spare key on a small keychain. “Dunno if I could just—” his mouth falls silent in response. Hanamaki gestures vaguely to the front door. It’s enough for Matsukawa to know what he means.

And maybe he should _be more clear about it,_ but nothing like _this_ ever comes easy. 

Matsukawa silently opens his door to let Hanamaki in. He watches him take off his shoes, settling into the black 100-yen slippers that Matsukawa doesn’t entirely remember being Hanamaki’s but nobody else ever used them. 

“How was Tokyo?” Matsukawa asks, standing awkwardly near his table, palms digging into the edge.

“Same old as always. No souvenirs though, sorry.” Hanamaki drops the spare key in the small wire basket of coins and other odd bits that never found a proper home with a _plink_ and drags his suitcase over to the television set. “You’re still using this shitty thing?” he asks, peering curiously at the antenna comically attached at the top. “I’m surprised it still works.”

It’s a distraction; as are most things. There’s a question in the air that’s lingered for too long now for the both of them to ignore.

“Why’d you leave?”

A couple moments of stunned silence follow, so long that Matsukawa isn’t sure if he actually asked the question. Maybe there’s still time to take it back from the world, but—

Hanamaki finally turns to look at him. “Hitting me with the big one, aren’t you?” he says with a tired smile.

Matsukawa shrugs in response. “You don’t have to answer.”

“But I should, shouldn’t I?” begins Hanamaki, hands fiddling with the handle of his suitcase. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath in preparation. “If I’m being honest though, I don’t know. What you said that night kinda took me by surprise. But I never really put what this was into words either, so it makes sense. Guess I just thought you knew all along, and didn’t mind it. So I didn’t really bother asking for more.

“And then—I just got sick of it one day. Was hoping you’d say a word or two about it, but you didn’t. You know, on that night. So I left. Didn’t want to see your face for a solid minute”—Matsukawa rolls his eyes—”and well, just went about doing whatever.”

“Again, you don’t have to—”

Hanamaki shakes his head. “No, we should talk.”

“Then come over here.” Matsukawa makes a motion with his hand. “Don’t stand so far away.”

Hanamaki obliges, taking a couple steps near the dining table. His hands place themselves on the top of the chair (that he normally sits at) opposite to Matsukawa’s and he takes in another breath, shoulders rising and falling.

“Maybe all the corporate bullshit finally got to me or something, but I quit my job. Hopped on the earliest train and took the cab to wherever and well, found myself back here again.” A slight twinkle lights up Hanamaki’s eyes, his cheeks a little flushed. Matsukawa’s heart beats even louder in his ears. “It’s kind of stupid isn’t it? This whole thing. But everything just _comes back to you_ , and damn if I don’t know what else to do.” Hanamaki throws up his hands, a mix of not knowing what to say and not knowing what to do at once.

It's standing here that Matsukawa has a second realization, that things never really made sense in the first place.

And maybe Hanamaki knows that too.

He takes a tentative step forward (closer). “I don’t know, either.”

“Wow, would you look at that,” Hanamaki mutters—without the usual lightness, this time. “What a surprise.”

“Who would’ve thought,” replies Matsukawa, almost allowing himself a smile. “But all I know is that I was being truthful when I confessed to you in high school. It made sense, back then.” A thick swallow. _Still does, right now._

He won’t admit this out loud, but deep down Matsukawa knows there’s always been something a _bit more_ that ties him and Hanamaki together, in ways that hurried kisses and casual flings don’t. Hanamaki probably knows too. They won’t ever say it though, but maybe it doesn’t need to be said.

“And I don’t really care if you go away for however long without saying anything. If I didn’t already have a job here, I’d probably do the same. It’s not like—”Matsukawa makes a vague gesture with his hands, each word practically forcing itself out of his mouth. “We can really _go anywhere_. If you want to party out in _Nich_ _ō_ , by all means.”

“Who are you taking me as—”

“ _All I’m saying_ ,” he cuts in before Hanamaki can complete the sentence. “Just… don’t forget me. Or something.”

If Hanamaki was anybody else in this scenario, Matsukawa might’ve taken another course of action. Put an end to the whole song that they’ve danced to for so long and throw away the CD, the record player, _everything_ that comes with the baggage of a liminal space, because nothing can stay frozen forever.

“You make it sound like that’s something easy to do,” Hanamaki says, now an arm’s length away. “If it was that easy, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

But the slight smile on Hanamaki’s face, one that doesn’t know what face is right anymore (and Matsukawa doesn’t know either) softens him in ways Matsukawa can’t explain, and _don’t forget me_ is only the surface of it all.

This time, Matsukawa smiles too.

“Your charger’s still by the bed, by the way.”

Hanamaki’s brows furrow in confusion. “Thought you threw it out already.”

“Never found the time, I guess.” Matsukawa shakes his head. A bit quieter, because confessions will always be difficult—”Or wanted to.” 

Another step forward. If they lean their heads towards each other, the tips of their noses would barely brush, probably. Hanamaki’s hand reaches out to Matsukawa’s cheek, but he stops himself just before— _waiting_.

“So about staying over…” Hanamaki says instead, the heat of his fingertips practically brushing against him. 

Matsukawa doesn’t even need to think about the answer as he pulls Hanamaki’s hand to him. “What do you think?” 

“You make it sound like we actually are dating,” Hanamaki says, his breath on Matsukawa’s lips. “Thought you said we weren’t.”

“Maybe we should then,” Matsukawa breathes out. Closer, even more now. “Doesn’t sound too bad to me.”

Their lips meet, with the force of a gentle wind and a thousand galaxies all the same. And if this isn’t _right_ , Matsukawa doesn’t know what is anymore.

“Yeah, alright,” Hanamaki says as they pull away for a brief second. “I’ll take you up on it then.”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


A couple weeks later, Hanamaki is once again packing his suitcase for Tokyo. It’s an inevitable coming, one that Matsukawa is almost relieved for. “Told a friend I’d help them out with their business for a bit. Maybe go into independent entrepreneurship while I’m at it.”

“Thought you were done with corporate bullshit.”

“There’s a difference there, I think.” He throws in the last of his clothes and gives the suitcase a good _slam_ before zipping it up. “You know, like there was a difference between us now and us before.”

“Wow,” Matsukawa sighs out, leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom. “Can’t believe you compared our _relationship_ to a financial prospect. Is that all I am to you?”

Hanamaki looks up from his spot, a genuine look of concern on his face. “If you become the funeral director, you’re going to make it big. You think I’m gonna pass up on that?”

“One more word and your funeral is what I’ll be planning for next, dear.”

“Wouldn’t want anybody but you, darling.” He stands up and promptly slumps his head onto Matsukawa’s shoulder. “Don’t miss me too much now, alright?”

“Could say the same about you,” Matsukawa replies, his hand absentmindedly reaching to play with Hanamaki’s hair. “What if I’m still sleeping next time you knock on my door?”

“As if. You wake up at 7:30 in the morning on the dot every day. Again, corporate bullshit.”

“So what’s different now?”

He’s not expecting Hanamaki to stay for very long. Days turn to weeks and weeks turn to months where Matsukawa might not see his face, but maybe that’s alright.

“Not much,” Hanamaki mumbles. “Not much at all.”

And maybe that’s not a proper answer, but Matsukawa's fine with not having those, not anymore.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  


(“Oh, just shut up,” Hanamaki comments with his hand on his cheek (free of the temporary tattoo of the Japanese flag, because he’s smart), a half-bored look on his features as the TV screens plastered on around the bars are showing Oikawa’s face. _Oikawa was virtually unknown as a player…_ ”

“And what of it, huh!” Yahaba spits out with a reddened face (who was the one that suggested this whole thing in the first place), despite him only being on his second beer.

“There’s a difference in scale here, y’know. A big difference,” Matsukawa notes with a hand on his cheek (slightly smudging the temporary Japanese flag tattoo) and a beer in the other. 

“Yeah, it’s pretty incredible,” says Watarai (somehow acquainted with Hanamaki during his time in Tokyo and also a volleyball player during his high school years), with a note of subdued awe.

The camera cuts back to Ryujin Nippon as the whole lineup fills the screen, some faces familiar, some completely new. Matsukawa takes another sip from his beer, draining the last drop.

“Woah, slow down there,” Hanamaki teases, poking at Matsukawa’s shoulder. “What happens if you do something embarrassing when you’re drunk?”

“You’re filming it for sure. Don’t act like that’s not what your phone’s out for.”

Hanamaki deftly puts his phone back in his pocket. “You know me so well. What’s next, we’ll actually start living together?”

The volleyball is sent to Kageyama (“ _Tobio-chan_ ” as they all so fondly remember) and with a dizzying speed Hinata slams the ball straight down the court. Japan’s first point and everybody in the bar lets out a cheer.

“Don’t see why not,” Matsukawa replies over the yells. “Then Iwaizumi wouldn’t have a reason to say we’re making the chat awkward anymore.”

Hanamaki takes a bite of the _agedashi tofu_ from Yahaba’s plate. “Didn’t you stop speaking in there like, almost a year ago? And I don’t remember the last time I looked at it.”

“That’s what I told him but he didn’t listen to me." Matsukawa calls for a refill of his beer. "If you’re not moving in though, I’m gonna chuck out those shampoo bottles of yours.”

“Hey! That's rude,” Hanamaki feigns indignance, putting a hand over his chest. “As if you could do that in the first place.”

Matsukawa chuckles.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”)

**Author's Note:**

> i had to restart this draft like 5 times and it's finally out WHEW thanks for reading! [twt](https://twitter.com/adri__atic)


End file.
